Текст книги "Miss Match"

Автор книги: Laurelin McGee

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Sad days when a couple cones of fries becomes a hot meal, isn’t it? Tell you what. I’m playing backup for Lua Palmer tonight at the new hipster wine bar place that opened up across from the studio. It’s all trendy and young and too cool for school. Why don’t you come with me? We can split my comped drinks, and maybe talk to the manager about picking up a few shifts. We haven’t worked together since high school. Remember the good old days at the Steak Buffet?”

Andy flicked the end of her fry at Lacy’s face. “Oh, I remember that all right. I remember doing all your side work while you flirted with the tattooed cook, what was his name—Olaf? Bjorn? Something as Scandinavian as it was fake. I served his mother one night, and she told me it was really—”

“Georgie!” Lacy shrieked. “I totally stopped flirting with him after you told me that. Besides, he sucked at guitar, and that was so not hot.”

“But then you immediately transferred your attentions to Salvadore, the buffet attendant who didn’t even speak English. So I was still bussing your tables and refilling steak sauces while you batted your eyelashes and pocketed the tips.”

“Salvadore taught me Spanish guitar, and that music is a universal language,” Lacy said primly.

“So is French-kissing, judging from the scene I witnessed in the walk-in.”

“Passion is a key requisite of flamenco, sis. I was merely seeking authenticity.”

It was a breath of fresh air to see Lacy’s smile reach her eyes. Andy couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her sister relaxed and genuinely happy besides when she was onstage. Since before Lance died, for sure. Which was why she rarely missed Lacy’s gigs, even when she’d rather be home soaking in the tub with a glass of wine.

The fact that she couldn’t afford a cheap bottle of Beringer played in Lacy’s favor.

Lacy licked the fry salt off her finger. “So we’re decided, then? What are you going to wear tonight?”

“Don’t think you’ll catch me doing your side work these days, little sis. What does one wear to a hipster wine bar, anyway?” How sad was it that she wasn’t even thirty and she had no idea what was in? The Ellis bubble hadn’t left much time for real life.

“How about keep the pencil skirt, and wear my gray sequined tank? I have a pair of oversized lensless glasses and a fedora you could wear, too.”

If that was what was in these days, no wonder she hated going out. “How about you wear that, and I’ll find something else. I think I’m too old for hipster chic.”

*   *   *

Blake stared at his monitor, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was well aware that the pose made him look slightly villainous, and had cultivated it to keep unwanted visitors from popping into his office and interrupting him. The ad had been taken down nearly as soon as Andrea Dawson had closed the door, overly firmly, behind herself. Yet the email account he’d set up to receive answers was still getting messages, 242 and counting. He could have delegated it to his secretary, of course, but this was a delicate matter. Best to handle it personally. Blake wanted to delete them all, but since Drea had left a message with his secretary an hour before politely declining the job, he knew it wasn’t wise.

Maybe he should forget the whole damn bride idea. Except that would be admitting defeat, and Blake Donovan never admitted defeat. When he’d hit his thirty-fifth birthday nearly a year before, he had achieved everything on his five-year plan except marriage. He firmly believed then—and still did now—that a wife was necessary for various reasons, such as hosting social engagements, appealing to clients who were more family-centered, and having an automatic plus-one at all the charity and business functions he attended. Also, the sex would be more convenient than his current method of cruising the local bars. And though he’d never say it aloud, he found returning home after a long day at work to an empty house was lonely. Silly, yes, but true.

He’d thought finding a wife would be an easy enough task. First, he went to his colleagues to set him up. But after several horrible blind dates and with his next birthday approaching quickly, he felt a professional was needed to find the woman for him. So Blake had joined Millionaire Matches online. That turned out to be another big fat failure. Perhaps Blake made a mistake by sleeping with and then dumping the CEO. Her parting words to him as she closed his account were, “You couldn’t pay someone enough money to find a bride for you in this town.” He couldn’t let that challenge go undefeated, now, could he?

Blowing air through his pursed lips, he considered.

Drea was his choice for the job, hands down. Who else had the precise background and skills to seek out and vet his future wife? By and large, the other candidates who had shown up in his office wearing too much makeup and perfume were only interested in wedding him themselves. And the few serious inquirers had résumés filled with skills such as “social media ninja.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? He wasn’t about to hire someone like that to perform the most important task he was going to assign this year.

And there was that something else about Drea. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her brash approach was usually a turnoff in an employee. Perhaps it was that she’d turned him down—no one said no to Blake Donovan, after all. It couldn’t be that, though—he’d sensed the something even before that.

He struggled to put a name to it. Underneath her obvious dislike and disrespect for Blake and the job he was proposing, he sensed … what?

A connection, that’s what. An understanding that few people had of him.

It was both terrifying and thrilling.

He had to explore it further. Completely in a working relationship form, of course.

So how to convince her to change her mind? He was willing and able to up the starting salary. Calling her to tell her that would make him look desperate, though, and Blake Donovan would not be seen as desperate. His shoe tapped the floor rapidly. He pulled up Google and typed her name into the search field. Several hits came back from various society pages, photos of Drea in evening gowns on the arm of Max Ellis.

He noticed two things immediately. The first was that for a girl who had absolutely nothing in common with his ideal, she looked more stunning in each photo. The second was that in each picture, Drea was leaning slightly away from Ellis, while he was either leaning closer to her or gripping her waist. Blake smiled. He’d bet money he had just discovered the root of her tight-lipped silence on the subject of her former employer.

That was a relief, because in truth he was a bit disconcerted about her lack of a referral. That it was due to an unwanted attraction was something he could deal with.

Among the glamorous pictures of charity balls and banking events was one he almost overlooked. Drea in jeans, grinning widely at the camera, arm around a taller, blonder version of herself. The caption indicated that the tall girl was named Lacy Dawson, an up-and-coming singer-songwriter. Had to be her sister. Intrigued, Blake changed the name in his search field.

Lacy came back with a lot more hits than her sister. Although far from successful, she had tons of gig listings, studio bios, and even a Facebook fan page. Blake felt most musicians were fairly shiftless, but he could tell this was a girl who worked hard. That reflected well on Drea. The proud, supportive sister. The type to show up to all of Lacy’s shows.

Blake clicked on a link listing Lacy’s upcoming performances, and wrote down the address he found there. He smiled for the first time all day.

Chapter Four

“So is it mandatory that I wear a trucker hat?” Andy asked her new boss, Zeke. They were at a corner table in the brick-lined bar discussing terms of employment.

“The thing about trucker hats is that they are so out that they have become ironic all over again. So you’ll probably want to hit a thrift store and grab a couple. We love irony here at Irony and Wine. It’s sort of our thing, as you may have gathered. You have no idea how hard it is to stay up to date on facial hair trends for our male staffers.” Zeke sipped his Malbec and glanced around the still-calm early-evening bar.

Lack of confidence leading to overcompensation in beardage. Andy loved being able to comfortably work out people’s issues. She could do this.

“Your bar is obviously super successful. I can’t wait to be a part of it.” She played to the strength she perceived: his ego.

His lip quirked beneath the thick coating of ginger hair. “You know, Andy, I think you’ll be a nice fit here. Why don’t we plan the rest of the night to be a working interview. Are you comfortable sliding behind the bar and helping Brax out this evening?”

So her initial read had been correct. Thank goodness. As unmarketable as her skills may be most of the time, she relied on them to guide her through social interactions as much as business. She still had it.

“I can’t say I’m much of a sommelier”—she was impressed with herself for knowing the correct wine term—“but I’d love to learn more, and Brax seems like he knows what he’s doing. Thank you, Zeke.” One of those sentiments was genuine, anyway.

Who cares? New job, new Andy. Trucker hats and thrift stores, okay.

Brax the Waxed Stache, as she immediately dubbed him in her head, grinned at her as she flipped up the partition that divided staff from customers. His handlebars were amusing enough to keep the smile on her face even as he began his rundown on the wines she ought to be suggesting to various patrons. Evidently Chardonnay was the first suggestion to be made to women, unless they were wearing graphic tees, which entitled them to Cab Sav. Then with couples, they were to be talked into obscure German blends because they’d spend extra to have a bottle they couldn’t pronounce. Dates always spent a lot to impress each other. Men alone were to be Italian-ed.

Andy’s head was spinning at the wine details, but her heart rate kicked up a notch at the psychology. Good Lord, this job had written itself for her. Meet people and determine what they’d like? She couldn’t work out why bartending hadn’t made her list of life options previously. Who cared that she didn’t know the difference between a Merlot and a Zin? She could fake that. It was perfect.

You could call literally any wine at all “well balanced,” or mention the “nice finish.” She realized pretty quickly that telling customer their glass of white had notes of pear, or apricot, or apple would never get her called out. You just picked a fruit and watched them nod in agreement.

“Hey, baby, I’d like a glass of red, with a shot of you on the side.”

Oh, no, no. The proposition came from a guy in a plaid button-down and Brax was at the opposite end of the bar—typical.

She wasn’t about to fall for that shit on her first non-shift. She took a deep breath, trying to recall what wine Brax recommended for overly aggressive flirts. “We have a lovely Cabernet on special tonight, almost as spicy as I am.” Cabernets can be spicy, right? “You’d like a glass, but love a bottle.”

A cheeky grin and a popular blend silenced the wannabe lumberjack just as she’d hoped it would. Mayhap this job would be the thing she’d been waiting for.

Or so she thought, until he’d killed the bottle and was giving her the lusty side-eye again. What a dick. Luckily, the polite older gentleman sitting in front of her was rambling on about his favorite books, so she could pretend to be engrossed in conversation. She hadn’t heard of a single one he mentioned, but he didn’t seem to mind. Or notice.

A couple young enough to have Andy double-checking their IDs sandwiched the older guy and started hugging and talking at once. There went her protection from old lusty-eyed. Also, she noted, the regulars here were shockingly friendly, considering Zeke’s snootiness. The couple ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc apiece and then requested straws. Andy hesitated, thinking it was likely a no-no of some sort, but Brax slid past her with a pair of Krazy Straws for the two.

When in Rome.

“Hey. Hey, are you related to that girl with the guitar?” Lumberjack had finally taken his eyes off her long enough to let them land on Lacy.

The desire to protect her sibling lost to bubbling pride. “My sister.” She beamed as she grabbed a bar towel and started polishing glasses to hand to Brax.

“Seriously, you guys totally look alike. Do you get that a lot?” Lumberjack swiveled back and forth on his bar stool to ogle first one, then the other.

“Uh, yeah. We’re sisters.” Idiot.

“Do you guys ever, like, I mean, two sisters would be so hot—” The stool wobbled precariously.

“Let me stop you there with an emphatic no.” Yeah, she should have kept her mouth shut about their relationship. The idea that this guy was thinking disgusting thoughts about her baby sister … and her … Uh, gross.

She wasn’t sure she was allowed to deny service to anyone, but she decided she was done with Lumberjack. “Hey, if you need anything else, Brax here can take care of you.” She could have sworn he mumbled something rude, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

Onstage, Lacy was tuning her guitar as Lua Palmer set up a mike stand. Lua wasn’t a good friend or anything, but she and Lacy performed together fairly regularly. Andy poured what seemed like a decent white into two glasses and brought them to the little wooden stage. There wasn’t time for more than a quick hello and a break a leg—the place was filling up fast.

Back at the bar, Brax had her setting out little bowls of roasted garbanzo beans and olives. She was just thinking how much more swank that was than peanuts when a hand gripped her wrist. Shit, who gave the lumberjack another bottle of wine? Yanking her arm away, she glared at the guy, who just grinned back. She pushed down the anger that was starting to build. Not the time to throw another sexual harassment fit.

“Hey, Brax, this dude in the plaid shirt is getting a little inappropriate.”

“You’ll have to narrow it down a little more than that. Every second dude here is in plaid. Including me.” He followed her gaze to the lumberjack. “Oh, no, Steve? I love that guy! He’s hilarious. Don’t worry about him.”

So much for professional courtesy.

A glimpse of someone familiar and out of place shot past her peripheral vision but a customer cut her off as she strained to see who it might have been. The customer was a guy about her age, wearing all gray and sporting disheveled blond hair. She thought he could be cute if he didn’t look so downtrodden. He ordered a bottle of Riesling—a wine Andy had never heard of—and began to eavesdrop on the book fan’s monologue to the young couple.

As Lacy began to strum onstage, Andy got caught up in the rhythm of the bartending dance. She took orders from customers and servers, suggesting wines by how the sounds of their names matched the personalities of the patrons. She must have guessed well, since she collected a decent amount of tips. Pausing to blow the hair off her hot forehead, she listened with half an ear to the morose guy—whom she’d decided to refer to as Eeyore—complaining about the book fan under his breath. Apparently no one was reading classic literature anymore. Salinger would be rolling in his grave.

“Because that shit sucks. Just watch the fucking movie, dude.” Steve the Lumberjack was suddenly in front of her, lips stained purple and eyes drooping.

“You are what is wrong with this country.” Eeyore’s green eyes suddenly blazed.

Steve sat up straighter. “And you’re what is wrong with this bar.”

“Illiterate lowlife.” It was the most spark Eeyore had shown since he’d sat down.

“Old man.”

Andy started to get a little worried a fight was coming. So was Brax, it seemed, because he was already frowning as he headed down the bar.

“Who served this guy?” He gestured to Eeyore.

“I did.” Andy bit her lip at Brax’s disapproving scowl. “Is that—was I not supposed to? He had ID.”

“Pierce is a recovering alcoholic.”

The guy in gray was already standing up. “I’m leaving anyway. I have to feed my pet rabbit.” It was impressive how much dignity he injected into that statement, considering that he was no longer wearing pants.

What the hell is wrong with this bar?

“You’re welcome for getting rid of that loser. So you wanna go make out in the men’s room?” Steve leaned across the bar. Andy turned to Brax, but he was already gone.

“Fuck you, no. And I happen to like the classics.” She’d actually hated Catcher in the Rye, but no way was this dude getting the satisfaction.

God, did she really want this job? She was fine suggesting drinks and clearing tables but dealing with half-naked alcoholics and crude lumberjacks wasn’t worth the handful of tips in her apron pocket. Blake Donovan’s find-a-bride service sounded a little less dreadful than it had an hour ago. At least she’d be dealing with women. Online, if she liked. And she could wear her slippers all day and no one would notice.

But too late for that. She’d already turned down that job. For the best, she reminded herself, as a memory of the attractive bastard flashed through her mind. Back to work.

She turned to see what Brax wanted her working on next, when Lacy caught her eye from the stage, nodding to her empty glass. Relieved to have an excuse to take a break, Andy grabbed the bottle reserved for the performers and started weaving her way through the crowd.

*   *   *

Blake watched Andrea’s hips swivel as she pirouetted through the onlookers to reach the stage. With an effort, he wrenched his eyes up to her tousled auburn locks. That was rather inappropriate of him, the rear-gazing. It’s just that she was so graceful, he told himself. He almost believed it, too. Observing her behind the bar, he really had been impressed with her grace. That one customer had actually dropped trou and she barely batted an eye. She was exactly the right person to screen his future brides—nothing fazed her.

He thought she’d noticed him before the pantsless gentleman sat down, but she hadn’t looked his way since. That was good; he hadn’t exactly figured out a way to make his professional interest in her look less like stalking. He sipped the Shiraz he’d ordered from the bartender with the peculiar facial hair as she was dealing with other customers.

Wooing her into his employment would have been much easier if she hadn’t actually found work here. In his half-assed fantasy, they would have spoken more about his offer, which he would have quietly raised over a bottle of Sangiovese. As Andrea’s sister serenaded them, she would have accepted his offer. After apologizing for her earlier refusal, of course. He assumed she’d have regretted that almost immediately. Evidently not.

Something plaid landed on him like a falling tree. It was thanks only to his own grace that Blake was able to keep the wine in his glass from sloshing all over his pristine white T-shirt. By the time he’d recovered enough to deal with the drunken asshole who’d staggered into him, the guy had already lurched off. He lost him in the crowd, so Blake decided to let him go. Then he returned to his observation of Andrea, only to realize she’d been covered up by the plaid guy. Blake was already shoving people out of the way when he noticed the lout was trying to cop a feel on his future employee.

Reaching the pair quickly, Blake overheard her using some rather creative phrases to dissuade him. His smile faded before it was half formed when he saw the reason for her colorful language—that fuckshovel had one hand on her breast, and the other was roughly pulling her by the arm toward the back door. Oh, hell no. Future employee or not, that was not how you treated a woman.

“Is there a problem?” Blake steeled his voice into his best boardroom tone.

“Blake?” Drea’s face went from shock to relief to confusion in a rapid sequence the drunk guy obviously wasn’t going to follow.

With glossy eyes, the drunk attempted to square his shoulders, his grasp still firmly on Drea. “Back off, dude, I saw her first.”

Blake couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a bar fight. Oh, that’s right—never. But he wasn’t about to let on. “I think, dude, that you should be the one to back off. The lady is clearly uninterested.”

“Oh, she’s interested.” He punctuated his declaration by squeezing Andrea’s breast.

She struggled to free herself. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re interested.” The drunk inched closer to Drea’s mouth.

She cringed, possibly as much from his bad breath as from the unwanted assault. “Nope.”

Blake’s free hand, the one not still holding his glass, curled into a fist at his side. Strange, because he’d never strike first. But he had to do something.

An idea came. “She’s mine.” His voice cut through theirs.

“Fuck you, man, she’s—”

With one easy tug, Blake pulled Andrea to him. He encircled her waist with his free arm and pressed his lips to hers. They were stiff at first but relaxed almost right away. His heartbeat sped up and his entire body hummed as she melted into him like ice cream on a hot day. Time seemed to stand still as the guy’s droning voice faded into the rushing of blood in Blake’s ears.

The feeling of her soft lips on his, parting slightly as he nudged his tongue against hers, made everything else in the world go away. She tasted like the first day of autumn—clean and cool and refreshing. One of her hands came up to tangle in his hair. She had to have noticed his intake of breath, but if she hadn’t, she’d definitely feel the way her kiss was affecting the fit of his pants. Blindly, he set his wineglass down on a nearby table to pull her closer.

With both hands on her waist, he could feel her heat through the thin fabric of her shirt. She was warm. So warm and so soft. He tightened his grip, unable to resist.

He groaned into her mouth. The sound brought him back. What was he doing? This was an incredibly inappropriate way to convince her to work for him. As he pulled away, he cleared his throat slightly.

In his periphery, he saw the drunk guy standing there gaping. “I guess she wasn’t interested,” he muttered as he swayed off.

Drea’s eyes never wavered from his. In them, Blake thought he saw a flicker of desire. But he must have imagined it because next thing he knew she was shoving him away with more force than she’d used on her attacker.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, as if she hadn’t given her all to that amazing lip-lock. Maybe she was a better actress than he’d supposed, though. Even the best thespian couldn’t fake the flush of her cheeks.

The kiss really had felt like something.

But that was impossible, because it was nothing. He’d gotten carried away, that was all. Nothing more. The adjustment he would need to make soon beneath his belt was just a fluke. A reaction to the wine, perhaps. He was normally more of a scotch man.

Refusing to meet her eyes again, Blake focused on the crease of her forehead. “He won’t be bothering you again. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, okay, I could have dealt with that myself. And what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

His practiced speech left him, and he was forced to be blunt and to the point. “I came to offer you that job.” So much for the schmoozing he’d planned.

“Didn’t I turn you down once already today?”

With her hands on her hips, eyes flashing, Blake could see why Max Ellis had been so intrigued by this woman. She wasn’t Blake’s type, he had to keep reminding himself, but she was always a surprise. He’d expected a bit of gratitude, if not for the position he’d offered, then for saving her from the ass who’d manhandled her only a minute before. Instead she was scowling and accusing and, the worst, denying the moment they’d shared.

Well, he wouldn’t stand for her dismissing it so easily. “Didn’t feel like you were turning me down just then.” He located his glass again and took another sip. Watching her blush was almost as fun as kissing her had been.

She opened her mouth and shut it. Then opened it again only to slam it closed once more.

“What the hell was that?”

They both turned toward the heavily bearded redhead. Drea redirected her fluster toward this man who was obviously unhappy about something.

Uh-oh. Was this Drea’s real boyfriend? It had never occurred to Blake that she might have one, but of course, why wouldn’t she?

“Very uncool, Andy,” the man said. “I asked you to do a working interview for a bar, not a cathouse. You’re supposed to be helping Brax, not making out with your boyfriend. What will the customers think?”

Thank God, Blake almost sighed audibly. The hairy fellow was only her boss—and not even her boss, if he heard correctly. Interview meant not yet hired. So he still had a shot. He stepped back to watch the situation play out.

“Zeke, he’s not, oh hell. Not my boyfriend. He’s a friend, well, he’s—he was rescuing me from a customer that was getting too handsy.” Drea was growing more muddled, smoothing down her shirt as she babbled.

“Really, Andy? Because all I saw was the two of you getting handsy with each other. In the middle of my bar. Part of the job of being a female bartender is to appear available. The male customers like the fantasy. And no one wants to see their server sucking face with some … some … businessman.” He practically spit the word out, as if he wasn’t a small-business owner himself. Indie cred, maybe.

Also, Blake had been fairly certain he looked cool in the white tee and black slacks. What had given him away? His perfectly polished wing tips winked up at him. Oops.

“I apologize, Zeke, but Mr. Donovan here”—her eyes darted to him—“Blake, I mean, was simply trying to stop Steve—”

“Steve? I love that guy! He’s a riot.” The bearded man clearly had poor taste in friends. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming this on him.”

“I … well, yes. Yes, I am blaming him, if you’d just lis—”

Zeke didn’t wait for her to finish. “Take off your apron, I think we’re done here.”

“Are you firing me?” Her lip trembled.

Blake would feel bad for her if he wasn’t too busy thinking about how good that lip had tasted.

No, that was not what he was thinking. It couldn’t be. He refused to think about that lip again.

“Technically, I hadn’t hired you.” Zeke held his meaty paw out. “I’m going to need your tips back along with the apron.”

Andrea’s hands were shaking as she untied the strings and threw the apron at Zeke’s face. She pulled a wad of cash out of her back pocket and threw it into the air. As bills rained down among them, the bar’s patrons dove and grabbed at the free money. Zeke glared, but Drea’s glare was harder.

“Fuck you, Zeke.” She stalked off. Then she turned back around for a parting shot—“Your giant beard makes it pretty obvious you’re compensating for a small dick, by the way.”

Blake snuck a look at the stage, where her sister was staring in disbelief, impressively without missing a note. Then he followed after Drea. His long stride had them even by the time she reached the back entrance.

She turned the knob and pushed it open, pausing in the frame. “Oh, and fuck you, too, Donovan! Way to stick up for me back there.”

He jumped ahead to avoid her slamming the door on him. He half feared she’d jump into one of the cars in the back lot and drive away, but she stopped, back to him, her head down.

Blake cleared his throat. Again. If he kept this up, she was going to think he had some sort of excessive drainage issue.

She didn’t turn around, but her shoulders tensed, signaling she was aware he was behind her.

“I should apologize, Drea.”

She spun toward him. “Go right ahead, then.” Her hands were on her hips again, voice echoing in the alley behind Irony & Wine.

Oh, the irony in this moment.

He folded his arms, wanting to appear as firmly grounded as she. “I said I should, not that I was planning to.”

Even in the dim light he could see her eyes flash.

He ignored the jolt that this sent to his groin and focused on his objective. “I want you to work for me. You were working for someone else. That person chose to unemploy you right in front of me. Things were working out in my favor. It would not have behooved me to stick up for you, as you call it. Some might say that I was sticking up for you when I rescued you from that lumberjack fellow.” He took a step closer.

She took a step back. “Sticking up for me? You forced yourself on me and got me fired.”

“My job offer still stands, Drea. As for forcing myself, I don’t believe that’s a point you can truly argue.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t retreat any farther.

“As for the job, please don’t try to tell me that these”—he gestured to the bar behind them—“are better working conditions than I’m offering. This is not an appropriate use of your skills, and you know it. It also can’t pay as well as I can. I’m prepared to add another thousand to that monthly figure I gave you before.”

After a long silence, she sighed. He knew what she’d say when her shoulders slumped.

“I accept your job offer, then. But you owe me for this. I lost a whole night’s tips to your antics. You can pay me back in cash up front.”

He pulled out his wallet and peeled off a few bills. “I’ll do that now, as a show of good faith, and I’ll buy you a drink, too, if you’d like to stay on for the remainder of your sister’s performance.” Why he’d made that last offer, he had no idea.

Drea’s eyes widened. “How did—?” She shook her head, changing her mind. “You know what? I don’t even want to know how you knew Lacy was my sister. Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Donovan. Blake. I think you are a fairly deplorable person right now. I’m accepting your job offer, but we are not going to be friends. No drink. Just cash. And the cash for the drink you would have bought. I’ll see you at nine Monday morning.”

Blake bit back the smug expression that he knew was playing on his lips. It was Wednesday—he really should give her until Monday to start, but he couldn’t stop himself from correcting her. “I’ll see you Friday at nine.” He simply wanted to get a start on their new venture. Or he wanted to have the last word, assert his authority. It wasn’t like he couldn’t bear going the weekend without seeing her.